What Lingers in the Shadows
by Occulatte
Summary: Ichabod Crane knows that he's different. It might be his weak nature or the scars dotted across his hands. Either way, it seems to have become his job to solve London's weirdest cases. This one is no different. People are being found drained of blood and with the oddest puncture wounds on their neck. The mystery deepens when a letter is found of a woman's desperate plea for help.


Rising high above the 18th century landscaped land of London is Big Ben, the architectural masterpiece that at _exactly_ midnight begins to ring rather loudly. Midnight is announced by this bell, and those of wealthy status are tucked safely away in their mansions and manors. Everyone else though, especially those of Whitechapel take to the streets. The streets of London cobblestoned and covered in different layers of filth are ruled by the common people. The addicts, mad men, prostitutes and criminals are just a few of the people that roam the city, and yet without them the city would crumble to the ground. Through their tears, drunken laughter and spilt blood, they managed to create a proficient business by becoming honest creatures of the night.

"Fancy a touch, Sir? Ten cents will get you all this... An' more..." The prostitute purrs in her lower class English accent, sounding more like a wren then a woman. She's wearing too much makeup that causes her pallid face to resemble a demented clown-but her body makes up for the poor excuse of a face. Her dress, ragged and faded is cut just above her knee, revealing torn stockings that are marked with dirt and different stains. Rising above the prostitute's legs is a voluptuous bosom and corset, the corset allowing her breasts to be pushed up and out. The customer that she's trying to attract is a tall man, wearing an expensive coat with a simple cravat tied around his neck. It's clear that he's wealthy and not interested in the woman, yet she continues, failing to see how disgusted this stranger is too her.

"Ten cents..." The woman moans, wrapping her leg around him and attempting to pull him closer. He can no longer hide his disgust and as a loud scoff escapes him, he pushes her away from him, sending the poor prostitute tumbling to the ground. The alley floor has patches of of dirt, and the few spots of cobblestone is filthy and filled with it's a rather disgusting environment that no living person should lounge in. Why this woman has chosen this alley as her area to seduce and eventually make love to customers is unknown. She hastily sits up, pinning her dirty ,blonde hair back into place and forcing herself to smile. The woman's teeth have started to blacken, which is a clear sign of a tobacco user. Even now she seems to be under the calming effect of Nicotine, as she weakly smiles up at him. Her eyes are half closed and the smile is one of a drunkard, as her left palm opens. It's revealed in that moment that there is a small, now empty syringe that she's just injected herself with.

"Jus' a lil'...Lil'... Touch of sin. Let tha'... Fun begin..." She mutters, slurring her words and swaying like an exotic dancer of sorts. Her "customer" is disgusted beyond belief by this woman's behavior, and in one swift movement he has her pinned against the brick alley wall. His eyes seems to glow with some sort of Hellfire, and the prostitute fails to notice the danger she's in.

"Mmmmm...Like it rough... don'tcha?" She questions softly and calmly, as the cool blade of a dagger is suddenly being held against her throat. The icy sharpness of the weapon seems to snap the prostitute out of her drug-inflicted phase, and her light blue eyes widen in fear. She immediately begins to struggle against the man, despite him being much stronger then her.

"No money! Free! F-free for y-you, free! Free! Jus' don't kill me!" She pathetically begs as if the offer of sex will still save her soul. He watches her for a moment, unfazed and then begins cutting. She screams now, but the scream is quickly stifled for this man slices open her throat first. A spray of blood, warm and salty hits him and the metallic scent of her seems to fill the entire alley. The prostitute is now making awful choking noises, weakly thrashing as he continues to cut down her throat and stops at her breasts. Edvin cups her angular face, forcing her to look up at him as the last of her light fades from her eyes.

"Beautiful." He whispers in a strong European accent of sorts, as he allows the prostitute to drop to the ground. Edvin crouches down, picking her slender neck up and beginning to feed off the first wound he made, where the blood is still bubbling warm and with the slightest reminiscence of a heartbeat.

"May the Devil take care of you..." He whispers, having fed and proceeds to use a bloodstained handkerchief to wipe the majority of the blood off his face. The stars are already starting to fade, and he knows that the sun will be up soon as the last of creatures of the night hide away until the next night. The woman is long dead in a puddle of her own blood, already growing cold and Edvin wishes he could stay to watch the passing-by reactions. He smiles at her one last time, her blood still sweet on his lips and leaps away into the shadows.

"Crane! Crane! Where have you wandered off too now?!" A fellow constable who goes by the name of Smith, and only Smith, and has the intelligence of a sack of stones proceeds to cry out. It's not so much as crying out, but banging upon every door and screaming as loud as he can. Constable Crane jumps as he hears his name being called and is one bump away from knocking over his ink pot, all over the paperwork he'd spent all night doing.

"Here. In here." He sharply replies, tired and in no mood to deal with the other constables childish antics. Smith enters the room and the comparison between the two men is very different, to the point of it being almost comedic. Constable Smith is large, almost overweight with light hair. Crane seems to be the opposite with a slim frame, dark hair and eyes. He faces the other constable and without hesitation, Smith raises his hand as if he's to strike Ichabod. He gasps, cowering and closing his eyes tightly.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost." He simply says and smirks at his fear, finding this whole scene quite humorous. To him at least. It's always fun to pick on Constable Ichabod Crane, for he seems to resemble a rabbit by how easily he scares and is quick to run away from danger. Crane stands up as straight as he can and attempts to look calm and composed, all while shooting Smith a death glare.

"I….I assure you, I-I…..I-I...Have not seen any ghouls nor ghosts, despite your frequent...M-mischief." He mutters, Crane's clipped English accent coming in quite clearly as his temper grows. The accent seems fitting for the London setting and this damned constabulary. He stomps into the office,smirking to himself at the ridiculous items and books littered upon the multiple shelves and desk in the cramped office. Smith finally makes his way over to the desk and proceeds to throw a rather heavy looking folder onto the small wooden space.

"Pardon my intrusion, but what sort of matter is this folder?" Crane asks and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. His job lately seems to be solving the odd and "cursed" cases, but it's rare for the other constables to sashay into his office, and deliver a job directly to him. He takes a seat at the desk, anxiety alreading growing at the bundle of papers shoved inside this folder and carefully opens it.

"The Superior thinks the like of you should solve fun, cowardly Crane." Constable Smith says so suddenly that Ichabod gasps and is yanked out of his deep thoughts. Without another word, Smith attempts to exit but isn't trying to be careful in any sort of way and purposely knocks over a few books. The books and an odd sculpture crash to the wooden floorboards with a loud thud, and Ichabod sighs. Dash it all.

Constable Crane forces himself to stand, hiding a yawn with his forearm and slowly picks up the books, stuffing them back into the shelf. It's no surprise that his superior, a rather perverted and piou Judge assigned him such an extensive 's as if the Judge wants him to fail so he has an excuse to taunt and mock him even more. Has he not been through enough?! The unfairness of it all makes Crane want to scream and rip out his hair in pure frustration.

"Perhaps he'll leave me alone today. Perhaps, though there's a better chance of an asteroid hitting then Judge Turpin leaving me alone! " He angrily mutters and forces himself to stand, an odd warmth starting to develop behind his eyes.

" _Calm_."

Of course. Of course. Ichabod takes a deep breath, allowing his anger to be tucked away for now and decides to open up the folder. The folder, the dreaded case is completely stuffed to the brim with papers of all sorts and sizes. Many of them have have scribbled on, in Smith's sloppy almost childlike handwriting. This is exhausting. Why is he here again? Another heavy sigh escapes the Constable, as he notices an odd mark on one sheet. It looks like some sort of claw? Turkey foot? Flower? He reaches under his desk, removing a pair of goggles with an extended eyeglass and proceeds to strap them on his face as if it's nothing. The eyeglass is straightened out and Crane leans into the paper, studying it and-

"Crane!" A deep voice suddenly screeches, as there's a harsh banging on his door, that completely breaks his intense studying. Ichabod jumps, letting out a stifled shriek and proceeds to knock the folder to the floor. Every paper that was shoved inside the folder goes all over the office, a few even fluttering out the window! He collapses back into his chair, covering his face in frustration and wanting to cry. Hot tears are actually pricking at the edge of Ichabod's eyes, and he can feel his fingers creating knots in his feathery hair. After a long moment of trying to stay composed, Ichabod decides to answer.

"Yes?" He demands and lowers his hands, his fingers curling into claws.

"Judge Turpin wants to see you." A young Constable, barely bigger than street urchin says and dashes away.

All the anger that he was feeling seconds ago is hastily replaced by fear. An intense fear that causes Crane to lose all the color in his already pallid face, as his vision begins to darken. The door creaks open, and Ichabod is too much near a fainting spell to notice that Judge Turpin has entered the premise.

"Hello there Constable..." Turpin purrs in that awful, sickly sweet voice as his dark eyes wander around the room.

"It looks as if a hurricane hit." He says with a slight smile and faces Ichabod, now expecting an answer. Oh god. He's nearly gone and yet he cannot faint, for the Judge is near. It's as if Crane is an antelope and Turpin is a lion. One wrong move or gesture and he'll pounce, stealing his virginity and tearing him apart. The Constable needs to return to reality and takes a desperate measure, his fingers weakly grasp at the edge of his feather pen and Crane proceeds to jab it into his hand. The center of his palm to be exact, where dotted scars lay and his hands are the most vulnerable. His mouth opens in an O for a moment, but Ichabod forces himself to close his mouth and act as if everything is fine.

"J-Judge….Judge Turpin. I...I-I welcome you to my office, it's a p-pleasure Sir." He mutters, avoiding all eye contact with Judge Turpin, hoping that he will _leave him alone_.

"There's no need to fear me, Ichabod, I won't hurt you..." Judge Turpin says as he approaches him, as one would approach a scared animal. Ichabod's eyes widen as he stumbles away towards the door, droplets of blood spilling onto the floor from his hand. Before anything can happen, he dashes out the door. Judge Turpin stands there in a confused silence, not understanding what just happened. Did the weakest most pathetic Constable he's ever hired just walk away from him?! Ichabod enters the office once more a few seconds later, trembling and looking quite ill.

"F-forget….T-the…. The folder. Have a lovely day, S-Sir." The constable says as he scoops up the remaining papers and stumbles out of the office. Once outside he takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay calm and opens up the folder, now completely unorganized and a mess. As he opens it to attempt and distract himself, a cream colored paper falls out that Ichabod failed to notice. It's stained, smells ancient and written in a clearly feminine hand. Why, Ichabod nearly swoons at the thought that he's reading a letter a _woman_ wrote and once held.

God. He needs a girlfriend.

"Dear Constabulary, my name is Janice Elizabeth de Winters. I hope that whoever reads this letter is a fair and honest man and will help me. The woman that was documented in the alley a fortnight ago,was my sister. Her body was violated and she was murdered by a wicked, wicked soul. My sister, Henrietta-Anne de Winters was a good woman and wouldn't harm a soul. I pray that you, fair constables can help me. My sister was murdered in cold blood and her murder must be found and brought to justice.

May the Lord shine down upon you. May His Holy Light surround you and guide you to find her killer."

Written at the bottom in black ink was her address, nearly smudged and what looked like a prayer of sorts. It appeared that this prayer had been torn straight out of the Bible and hastily pasted to the end of this letter. Ichabod's curiosity only grows as he continues to read on.

" _Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you_."

The verse reminds Ichabod of his childhood, his horrific childhood that he would rather forget then remember.

The Reverend of a small village, also his father was a cruel and unjust man. Much like how the London Constabulary is. He remembers thought that he was forced to study the Bible day after day. It wasn't fun-Father would beat him if he misspoke while reciting a verse, and it's not something that the Constable wishes to , he's not certain that anyone would want to relive or repeat being beaten.

If he could choose to never see or hear another verse of religious texts he would gladly do it. It seems though that the most of society seems to be religious, no matter what their statuses were. People truly believe that there is some sort of higher deity that will talk to them, lead them and guide them. He can feel his anger rising, his mood quickly dropping and so Ichabod forces himself to read over the quote once more, all whilst carefully folding the letter in half. This Janice, the woman that lost her sister clearly wants the killer to be caught and brought to justice and yet, at the same time she wants the justice to be fair and just. Crane laughs to himself without realizing it. "Fair" and "Just" are _not_ two words to describe the justice system in London, and if Miss de Winters is depending on the London Constabulary, then Ichabod knows deep down inside that she is royally screwed over.

"Despite this 'Fair' and 'Just' system, I feel...Obligated to help her." Ichabod mutters to himself as he tucks the letter into his inner waistcoat pocket. The letter feels like lead against his heart and he wants to remove it, burn it but he cannot. Something is stopping him. Something or someone is preventing him from reaching into his pocket and removing the letter in order to dispose of it.

"Unknown forces. Wonderful!" The Constable nearly screeches and throws his hands into the air, just as he notices that Constable Smith is standing at his doorway with a smirk on his lips. It appears he's been there for the last who knows how long and by his wicked smile, he's seen enough.

" I knew you were mad, but didn't expect to see a display of madness in broad daylight! What a loon." Smith says and laughs to himself as he walks away. Ichabod growls in frustration, his eye twitching as the anger returns.

No. No, not yet.

He inhales deeply and Crane turns on his heels, fists clenched and a determined look in his eyes. He has a certain Janice de Winters to visit.


End file.
